


Statuesque

by theyalwayssay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Dean, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Model Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1202932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyalwayssay/pseuds/theyalwayssay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unwilling college artist Dean Winchester is aware of two things.</p><p>1. The art midterm involved painting a nude model.</p><p>2. This isn't what he was expecting when he heard the term 'nude model'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Statuesque

College was absolute shit. How he had managed to survive it for nearly four years was anyone’s guess, although it was doubtful that anyone could be more surprised by it than his little brother.

Dean leaned his head on his hand, the bristles of his paintbrush scraping slightly against his temple. He had assumed that this class would only take a few hours at the very most, and yet with the model nearly a half-hour late, his time for studying for midterms was dwindling fast. It was bullshit, the fact that of all classes, this would be the one to wreck his GPA. The idea that a student majoring in automotive repair was required to take an art class was the sort of nonsensical reasoning that only a liberal arts college could come up with. If it hadn’t been for the massive scholarship (courtesy of Sam, the author of his application essay), there was no way Dean would ever be there.

The other art students were shifting uneasily in their seats, checking their watches and glancing mechanically at the door. Some of them, the few that were actually majoring in the subject, were chewing on their hair and the ends of their brushes nervously. Jesus, art majors were weird. All knit beanies and overgrown hair and paint and charcoal all over their skin from God-knows-what they got up to. Dean supposed they would be nervous anyway, what with this project accounting for ten percent of the class grade, but of all the places to wait, the studio wasn’t the worst. The walls were painted a dove grey, reflecting the bright sunlight glancing in from the enormous skylights placed into the high ceiling, which gave the room a warm, fuzzy atmosphere. Several great glass vases overflowing with bright flowers gave some colour to the otherwise sterile room, filled only with the circle of students with their easels, an empty wooden dais standing at attention in the center. While Host Studios and Galleries was thought to be the most prestigious art firm in the area, it was also the only studio which allowed nude models. Hence the students had found themselves waiting nervously for the unlucky person who would find themselves bared for all the world to see, and Dean Winchester wondering if it was possible to brain himself on the wooden frame of the easel.

There was a sharp snap as the door to the studio closed. The students looked around in relief to see their professor walk over the bamboo flooring to stand in the center of the circle of easels. For all the talk of ‘unorthodox colleges’, no one would expect anyone as rough-looking as Professor Singer to teach art, and certainly not at a collegiate level when he looked as though he’d spent his whole life living in the woods. However, his gruffness and talent had quickly silenced any young skeptics in his class. He’d proven himself to know more about perfectly-proportioned anatomy than a medical specialist, and could light a painting to look as though one could reach right through the canvas.  
“Nice to see that you’re all bright and early today,” he said, grinning through his beard at Anna, who choked on the mouthful of coffee she had guzzled from her thermos. “I’m sure most of you’ve been awake for hours studying for your other classes, so it’s an honor to see you all sitting my little exam, even though it could cost most of you passing grades and scholarships.”

A scrawny boy on the other side of the dais looked about ready to wet himself with fright.

“Don’t look like deer in the road, I’m only kidding,” Professor Singer laughed. “I’m sure you’re all raring to meet our special guest today, and we’ve only got the studio for four hours. Let’s get to it. Cas!”

The door to the studio opened again, and Dean turned around, his hand convulsing so violently his paintbrush nearly snapped in half.

“This here is Castiel Novak, and he’s so graciously agreed to be your model today. Hope you all can play nice.”

While Dean had been entertaining the notion of a live model for a week since they’d received their assignment, he’d always assumed that it would be a girl. The light glancing off of feminine curves would prove to be more of a challenge, and there couldn’t possibly be many guys who would be willing to pose naked for a crowd of art students. And yet, there was. He was only dressed in a flimsy cotton robe, for God’s sake. Did he walk all the way to the studio looking like that?

Dean put his head down on his hand as the dark-haired man walked towards the dais in the center of the room, looking slightly embarrassed but determined. His tenacity had to be admired. No one way in hell Dean would ever catch himself standing naked in front of so many people three was the absolute limit, forty-five was something out of a nightmare. The thought of braining himself on the easel now seemed twice as appealing.

“I told you what I wanted a week ago, but I’ll remind you,” Professor Singer said as he made for the door. “You’re all fine with the practical aspect of the human form; you can draw it all and shade it properly, but I want you to be able to see it. I want to be able to visualize your thought process in your work. Don’t just draw me a photograph; show me what you see.”

He pulled open the door and walked out, shouting over his shoulder at them. “Four hours! Let’s go!” 

The door closed, and Dean looked around to see Cas (not Cas, the subject; depersonalization helped with remaining ambivalent towards the model and their various characteristics) had climbed onto the dais, the thin robe thrown over the heads of the students onto the floor behind them. He had struck a graceful pose that reminded Dean absurdly of ice dancing, and the other students were already fast at working, mixing colours and sketching onto the canvas, taking quick looks up at the subject with analyzing, clinical expressions. Dean blinked, but he seemed unable to force his mind to tear itself away from the fact that of all the directions, Cas had decided to directly face his easel. Rather, the full-frontal view of the subject was giving Dean severe art block. He glanced at his canvas and back again and again, but his brain seemed to be stuck in a permanent loop of uh, uh… from which he couldn’t seem to escape.

He glanced up at Cas’s face to find the subject staring down at him with wide blue eyes. Dean jerked his head back in alarm, and Cas raised an eyebrow pedantically. Dean cocked his head, staring at him. Was that supposed to be a challenge? Cas smiled slightly as Dean picked up one of his brushes, causing Dean to chew on the end of it as every cohesive thought flew out of his head once more.

He had really thought the model was going to be a girl. Moreover, he hadn’t thought that the possibility of his failing art would land in the fact that he couldn’t concentrate. He might end up failing art, for fuck’s sake, because he kept glancing up at Cas to check the angle of the lighting and instead staring at those icy irises for at least five minutes…  
…Cas’s mouth stood out with distinction in the bright sunlight, the bow casting the slightest shadow on his upper lip, each little touch of stubble creating an almost speckled effect on his sculpted jaw. Everything about him was skin and shadows, the matte of his pale form creating a forest of dark pits and valleys that seemed to swallow up the light of his skin in some places. His hair glinted as though gilded, and Dean made a mental note that black hair and sunlight was one of the best combinations. As for the rest…well, the same effect was apparent further down his body.

Dean blinked violently, tearing his gaze away to rest again on Cas’s face. He tried as hard as he could to keep his eyes moving, but it was incredibly difficult. He was reminded forcibly of when he’d last been abroad with his brother. Their dad had flown them to Florence for a job, leaving them in the hotel as he went to go speak to clients. Dean had managed to slip the two of them out of the room through the windows, and they’d hitched along with a group of schoolchildren into the Accademia Gallery, much to the hungry Dean’s dismay. The famous statue of David was much taller than Dean had imagined, and as they sat on the row of benches which surrounded the statue, Sam talked animatedly of all the physical trauma that had occurred to the statue. Dean, exhausted from jetlag and lulled by the steady drone of his younger brother, let his eyes fixed dazedly on a hazy white point in the middle distance, only to be slapped by Sam and told that he had been staring at the statue’s ass for the better part of ten minutes.

Cas’s skin was nearly like marble, smooth and pale, although not as mottled and, Dean confirmed with the subtlest flick of the eyes he could manage, sufficiently better endowed than the famed statue. There was, however, the cut of his hipbones to be concerned with, the way the muscles of his calves caused subtle ripples in the light and texture of his leg, the tiniest lines and wrinkles cutting across his outstretched palms…

Maybe it could be turned in as an abstract work. Dean turned his canvas over and over, seeing nothing but vague sketches of disembodied limbs, drawn with a lazy hand as he stared at Cas. Dean set the canvas down in dismay, biting his lip. There definitely wasn’t enough time to paint over the sketches and wait for the paint to dry before starting anew. He’d simply have to work with what he had.

He put down his pencil, picking up his palette and dipping into the white paint. Mix. No, it needed to be more sun-kissed then that. Maybe some red. Mix. Shit, no, he’s not a lobster. Light pink. Mix. Shit. Shit.

“Time’s up,” Anna called, glancing at her watch. Dean looked up in alarm as the other students began putting their supplies away, some blowing onto the canvases to speed up the drying paint, his stomach falling into the floor as his fingers went cold as a corpse.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” Dean hissed, looking from the palette still in his hand to his nearly empty canvas. There was no chance that this wasn’t going to bring his grade down, not to mention possibly lose him his scholarship. And all because he couldn’t fucking focus for two seconds? He damn well knew how to draw penises, he’d seen and sketched them thousands of times. There was absolutely no reason why this should have been an issue. Then why the hell was it?

The door opened with the sound of impending doom as Professor Singer walked back into the studio. “Hope you all got some quality time,” he said, surveying the few students trying desperately to add finishing touches to their canvases. “I’m sure whatever you all have will be…fascinating. Now, pack up and get out of here.”

The students scurried about, folding up easels and putting the lids back on paint pots as Dean still sat on his stool, frozen as glass. His eyes flicked about frantically, and caught a pair of bright blue irises.

“Help me,” Dean begged Cas hysterically. 

To his surprise, Cas stepped down from the dais, stretched mightily, and walked over to Professor Singer. Even in his panic, Dean couldn’t help but notice what an odd picture it was, seeing his art professor talking seriously with a naked man holding a robe in one hand. Art people. Honestly.

The rest of the class began walking out, talking stiffly as they passed through the door. Dean was left still sitting at his easel, feeling like the little boy who had been asked to speak to the teacher after class.

Professor Singer looked up at Dean appraisingly, then nodded and walked out the door, leaving Dean and Cas alone in the room. Dean hand twitched subconsciously as Cas walked toward him.

“Extra time.”

“Sorry?” Dean replied, confused not only by the response, but by the deep, gravelly voice that emanated from Cas, like a shout from the back of a cave.

“I talked the professor into giving you extra time. I said that my showing up late gave you a disadvantage.”

“I, that’s…I mean, thanks, but isn’t the studio going to be closing soon?”

“I doubt it, unless I’m the one who closes it,” Cas said. “My brother’s the owner,” he replied in answer to Dean’s questioning look.

“You’re shitting me,” Dean replied.

“No,” came the reply.

“You’re saying that your brother hired you as a nude model for his art gallery?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he thought it would be funny.”

Dean smirked. “Well, actually, yea, it’s a bit funny. If I owned an art studio I’d probably do that to my little brother. Actually,” he said, his nose wrinkling, “no. No, I wouldn’t do that.”

Castiel stepped closer to Dean’s easel, and Dean pressed his thumbnail into his palm, intent on keeping his eyes fixed on Cas’s face. “What would you like me to do?” he asked. “If the previous pose wasn’t working for you, I could try something else. The light’s fading now, but we could get some lights in here. Or you could try a different medium, if your professor allows it. I’m personally not much of a painter, but sculpting…”

“No, I paint,” Dean replied stupidly. “I-I mean, I’m majoring in automotive repair. So, car detailing, that sort of thing, you know. Sort of comes with the territory,” he lamely finished. Cas nodded, as though unsure what he meant.

“I’ll stick with the painting, thanks,” Dean said, hefting his palette up on his arm. “You could just sit on the dais if you want. You’re probably tired of standing for so long. But face away from me.”

Cas looked slightly perturbed at this instruction, but did as he was told, sitting cross-legged on the platform with his hands on his ankles. The light had changed completely now, filling the room with oranges and pinks, rather than the clean, springy yellow that had been present earlier in the day. Dean went back to his palette, attempting again to mix the proper skin colour. The pigment was starting to pile up in globs, but all of it looked completely wrong. Cas’s skin was at once too pale and too ruddy, too sleek and too stubbly for any sort of base coat to be formed. Dean sat back on his stool, rolling his neck and trying to think of a loophole. Anything that involved not having to paint the skin, while he was stuck with a canvas full of limbs. Think, think, think…

…Why canvas? Paint what you see, paint what you know. Dean glanced around. Cas was still sitting dutifully on the platform, and his skin seemed to capture the rosy light pouring in from the windows as though he was a decanter for honey. The way his hair thinned to a fine point at the nape of his neck, and his shoulder blades stood out powerfully from the smooth slope of his back, had to be the best sort of genetic mutation. There were very few indeed who could boast of having such an impressive spine. Or really, such an impressive anything as Cas had.

Dean slipped quietly off his stool, gathering the pots of paint in his hands. What you see, what you know. He walked quietly over to Cas, the wood squeaking as he approached. Cas turned around to look at him and Dean stopped.

“I thought…I was thinking that since I can’t get the right skin tone, if I…would you mind if I got paint on you?”

Cas opened his mouth for a moment, then shrugged and turned to face the opposite wall again. Dean took this to be assent, and loaded his brush with midnight blue paint.  
The pigment went on smoother than he would have expected, much easier than the rough fibers of his canvas. It flowed with the necessary smoothness, and Dean marveled at the stroked dripping down Cas’s back. There was the issue of the rise and fall of his breathing to contend with, as well as the shoulder blades, but this only served to make it all the more real. Dean felt as though he was creating some new creature out of mud.

“I’m Dean, by the way,” he said into the silence. “Dean Winchester. I thought it would be good of you to know that since you’re letting me get paint all over you.”

Castiel nodded. “Nice name. How long have you been painting?”

“Only since the beginning of the year. I have to take a fine arts class to qualify for my scholarship.”

“Scholarship?”

“Yea. It’s really the only reason I’m still at the school. My younger brother Sam is just starting law school right now, and money’s pretty tight what with two tuitions to pay for. Not that we had much to begin with.”

The line of the paintbrush faltered slightly. “But, you know, we’re still where we need to be, and that’s why we struggle through shit like that anyway.” 

“I don’t think this is a struggle,” Cas replied quickly. “I love art. If I knew my brother to be a kinder person, I would think he had bought this studio for me.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dean replied quickly. “I’m all for painting and drawing and all that, but when you think of an education riding on a class you’re being forced to take, it sort of feels pointless.”

Castiel shrugged, causing the paint to smear. “Watch it,” Dean said warningly.

“Apologies,” Cas said, jerking his head noncommittally. “I wouldn’t really know about that. I never went to college.”

“What, really? But you must be, what, twenty…”

“Twenty-two. I went into the Army when I was eighteen at my father’s request. He seemed to think I’d make an excellent soldier. Well, the joke was on him anyway. I stayed behind and did science work for all the soldiers in the field. Never spent a day in firing range. I suppose that doesn’t really count as service, does it?”

“Sure it does. Does that mean you work for your brother here?”

“No. My brother Gabriel has a strict non-nepotism policy. He seems to think that working with his brother will ruin the sanctity of the establishment. Personally, I think he just hates working with us. He’s never really been much for the family, you know?”

Dean nodded before realizing that Cas couldn’t see him. “Broken family. I get that. My father was the same. Well, not exactly. We’d tag along with him, but he’d leave us behind all the time. He was a hunter, specializing in big game. He’d have to go to a client’s place all the time to see about some taxidermy problem they were having, so Sammy and I spent…a lot of our time in motels. Come to think of it,” Dean said, chuckling with mock cheeriness. “I’m sure half the things my dad killed were protected in some state or another. Sammy certainly seemed to think so, anyway. He went through this whole phase with identifying each thing my father got, and whenever he’d figure out what it was, his face’d screw up and he’d mope in the corner for a few hours. He’s always been an animal lover.”

“Really?” Castiel asked. “I’ve always been a guinea pig person myself. Perhaps the love for animals runs in the youngest brothers.”

Dean smiled, the thought of Cas with a guinea pig both adorable and absurd. “How many brothers do you have?”

“Three, all older. The other two left ages ago to travel to God knows where. I think one of them might be in prison right now.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Not especially, he was a bit of an asshole,” Cas craned his neck, trying to see what Dean was doing. “Are you nearly finished? I think I can feel the dry paint cracking.”

“Yea, yea, nearly,” Dean said, reaching forward and pushing his head back around. The softness of the dark hair shocked him, and he resisted the powerful urge to keep his hand there. “No peeking. You have to wait til it’s finished.”

Cas harrumphed, crossing his arms.

***

“There,” Dean said ten minutes later, leaning away from Cas’s back. “Finished.”

Cas started to get up, but Dean put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. “Hold on, I need to take a photo of it.”

“Wonderful. A photo of my naked back to circulate around the Internet.”

“I’m not going to put it on the Internet, but I have to show my professor something. And besides, you’re a nude model. Why would it bother you if people see your back?”  
“Because…” Cas mumbled. “Because a photograph of the naked body is dehumanizing. Anyone could just crop out everything they didn’t want. When you see a naked person in real life you have to deal with your own shame of it. It’s why there’s not a market for live audience porn. It’s easy enough to see something through a screen, isn’t it? But in person you have to question yourself. That’s what you did, isn’t it?”

Dean fumbled with his phone as Cas looked up at him. “I’ve…I’ve seen penises before,” Dean stuttered.

“Yes, your own and probably some online and in anatomy books. But never someone else’s in the flesh, I assume. That’s what makes drawing with live models so difficult. It’s not quite the same when it’s a real person, is it?”

“It’s not just that,” Dean shot back, feeling a flush spread over his neck. “It’s your…everything. Eyes and hair and…everything else. I’m not some dick hound. You give it too much credit.”

Cas smirked. “Everyone else was busy focusing on their paintings. You were staring at me for the better part of three hours.”

“…Full-frontal…”

“I would have turned around if you’d wanted me to.”

“I didn’t want other people to think that was why!” Dean shouted. “What would I have said? ‘Turn around because your penis is making me uncomfortable about my sexuality?’ No, I’d rather just suffer in silence, thanks.”

Cas didn’t say anything for a moment, but tilted his head thoughtfully, gazing at Dean.

“…So it was the penis…”

“Shut up!” 

Cas snorted, as though trying very hard not to laugh. “I apologize,” he said quietly. “If it’s any consolation, I decided to face your way on purpose.”

“I… _why_?” Dean asked, staggered.

“There was a girl sitting directly across from you,” Cas replied. “I’m not…entirely comfortable with women looking…well,” he glanced down as redness began to seep up his cheeks, and it took all of Dean’s restraint to not voice how fucking adorable it looked.

“Here,” Dean said by way of an answer, shoving his phone under Castiel’s nose. Castiel took it, squinting at the screen. Dean watched as his blue eyes widened, and his pink lips parted in surprise.

“Wings,” he whispered. “Blue wings.”

“He said to paint what you saw,” Dean said, shrugging. “And that's what I saw. Is it-”

But his words were cut off as Cas leapt onto him, lips searching hungrily for purchase, hands seeming to stretch everywhere at once. Dean let out a small gasp as their lips collided, and warmth seemed to spread from every pore of their touching skin. Dean vaguely felt the still-wet paint smearing stickiness across his hands, but he was too busy feeling the warmth, the pliability of Cas’s skin, so fiery and warm as though it was clay straight out of the fire. His previous assumption of Cas’s skin being like marble was dashed as Dean felt each molecule of his skin moving and quivering with life. 

The subject’s eyes were bright and, at this moment, heavy-lidded. His hands were elegant and long-fingered and, at that moment, pressing forcefully into Dean’s back, as though he was trying to readjust his bones. His legs and stomach were strong, his hips carved elegantly, and his breath heady, smelling of old ink and dark chocolate. That was no telling of what was occurring between the knees and hips, which Dean was hazily aware of in the way one comprehends light and dark with eyes tight shut.

Dean closed his eyes as he felt he and Cas part, coldness spreading across his wet lips. He glanced at Cas, who stood uncertainly before him, his hands still around him, his face pink and blotchy.

“I-”

“Don’t,” Dean said, quickly, stepping closer to the warmth of Cas’s arms. “You’ll ruin it.”

Cas blinked uncertainly, then smiled. “It’s a good thing you got the photograph when you did. I’m sure the painting’s ruined now.”

Dean leaned back, pulling his hand from around Cas and looking at the strokes of blue smeared from his fingertips to wrist. “Nothing that can’t be redone.”

“I do need to go home at some point, Dean,” Cas replied jokingly. “My brother’ll wonder what I’ve been getting up to in here.”

“Creating art, obviously,” Dean replied airily.

“Well, this art needs to be washed off,” Cas said, attempting to step away. Dean tightened his grip, and Cas returned, a smile widening across his face. Every centimeter of connecting skin seemed to spark with heat in the cold studio, and Dean couldn’t help but imagine that the warmth could only increase with doing away with the cumbersome layers between them. Cas gasped as Dean pressed his lips to his neck, feeling as light as paper-thin glass, colourful and bright.

“Later.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just stretching my Destiel wings again! I've been working obsessively on a new novel of mine and have had very little time to devote to fanfic. I hope you enjoy, and please let me know if there's anything that you liked/didn't like/loved/hated/anything at all, both myself and my fics live off comments. Thanks so much for reading!


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